The 3 Stages of Friendship
by Jennistar1
Summary: Or: 3 ways Sherlock and John realised what friendship was. CHAPTER 3 UP. NOW FINISHED.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The 3 Stages of Friendship - Stage 1  
**Author:** starjenni  
**Disclaimer: **Still not mine!  
**Warnings: **Nasty people!  
**Rating:** T  
**Spoilers: **The usual.  
**Summary:** Stage 1 - Support (or: in which John finally snaps)

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**1) Support**

Another day, another crime scene, another battle to concentrate while the lower mortals titter and prattle around him. Really, they _are_ getting tiring. Thinking that if they keep up this torrent of abuse he will miss something, he will forget something. They should know by now - Sherlock never misses anything. _Anything_. Which means he could quite cheerfully announce to Lestrade that Anderson has been nicking money from the evidence lockers, or that Donovan is badmouthing him behind his back in a poor attempt to gain a promotion. For gods sake, her cuffs are practically _screaming_ it to the world. Why does no one ever notice these things?

Because they are not him, that's why. And by the sounds of it, he is the _last _person in the _entire_ world who Donovan would _ever_ want to be.

"For gods sake, why do we even entertain this _creep?_" she says. Loudly. Anderson sniffs an affirmative. Sherlock inwardly rolls his eyes and bends closer over the body. Lawyer with two ex wives - no…no, make that three -

"It's like we're helping him _learn _how to commit a crime." Someone needs to gag her. "I mean, is that what the police does now? Encourage _psychopaths?_" Sociopath, you stupid woman.

"Exactly," Anderson chimes in. Dear Lord, it's like they're joined at the _hip_. "He's a freak, we don't need his help." Hell yes, you do. Ah, the victim has a young daughter, his hairstyle is screaming it is so. So, young daughter, three ex wives, ah, and a dog. Family man, broken family man, why was he -

"We should be locking _him _up," Anderson continues -

Why was he murdered, unless…ah, his right finger…

"Or leave him," Donovan adds. "Then he'll die alone and miserable, like he should. "It's not like he's got any _friends_ - "

"_Shut up._"

It's not Sherlock who says it, though a part of him is screaming it as loudly as possible. He blinks and straightens up, to find everyone in the room staring wide-eyed at John, who is standing, fists clenched.

"_Sorry?_" Anderson asks in what Sherlock has privately labelled as his 'pompous arse' voice.

"I said _shut up_," John snaps. "Stop with your incessant and pathetically _jealous _little comments and your frankly _ridiculous _immature _sniping_. This man - " He points a fierce finger at Sherlock, who blinks, entirely taken aback, "_This _man is worth fifty of you, he could be doing anything with his time, but he is choosing to help _you_ even though you goddamn don't deserve it, you don't even deserve to be in his admittedly _genius_ presence, so just shut your disgusting little mouths and let him work, all right? I'm sick of it!"

John's voice has risen to such a volume that most people by now are staring at the scene. Donovan's eyebrows have shot up under her hair, and Anderson is bright red, but neither quite dare to speak. John, although short and stocky, has military man drilled straight through him, and everyone who looks at him now is getting the instinctive feeling that he's about to scream at them to do fifty press ups one-handed.

Silence reigns. Neither Donovan or Anderson move. John nods triumphantly.

"Right then."

He turns back to Sherlock and apparently only just notices that Sherlock is staring at him as if he has just dropped off the ceiling.

He falters. "Uh," he says, and then quickly breaks eye contact, clearing his throat. Sherlock realises he has broken into a small smile, and opens his mouth to speak, but as he does so, Lestrade bursts in.

"Information! Now!"

Sherlock is transported back to the case, rattles off what he has deduced, and for the moment forgets what has happened.

Donovan and Anderson don't speak for the rest of the night. Sherlock buys John his Chinese after they have solved the case, and John doesn't ask why.

**Stage 2 up soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The 3 Stages of Friendship - Stage 2

**Author:** starjenni

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine!

**Warnings: **Uh. Painful times? Also, swearing.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers: **The usual.

**Summary:** Stage 2 - Loyalty (or: in which John doesn't look before he leaps.)

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**2) Loyalty**

In retrospect, jumping out of a third storey window after a criminal was not the wisest thing to do, but John Watson had never professed to be as intelligent as resident genius Sherlock Holmes. Of course, he didn't exactly have to be quite as clever as that to know that the nasty snapping sound when he landed on the ground - and the screaming pain that immediately followed it - meant that he had broken his leg.

He was also doctor enough to know that this amount of pain and that loud a snap meant that he had broken it very badly, a theory further confirmed by the fact that standing up was basically an impossibility now, not that he didn't try, he _was_ after a criminal after all.

Careful hands pushed him back down, squashing his efforts, along with stream of unsteady - "_Don't, don't, don't_ - uh - you don't - "

John glanced up through the suddenly gathering haze of pain to find himself face to face with a Sherlock Holmes who looked like he had just been thrown into a tank of piranhas. He was certainly flailing enough.

"I don't know what to do," he was babbling, which John thought was strange, because surely Sherlock had seen where the criminal had run off to.

"He went that way," he supplied helpfully, attempting point in the right direction but being a little put off by the fact that the world was lurching around him rather uncooperatively.

He must have pointed the wrong way, because Sherlock immediately launched into a stream of profanities. "Not the fucking - fucking _hell,_ John - shit fucking _fuck _- " A series of beeping noises told John that Sherlock was typing into his phone - probably telling Lestrade where the criminal had gone to, John reasoned, until he heard Sherlock say instead, "Ambulance please. Uh. Address. Uh."

"23 Drydock Road," John informed him. For some reason, the address was wheeling chaotically around his head, refusing to leave, along with the nagging feeling that he should have upped Mrs Penrose's medication for her knee. The mist of pain was increasing, he was almost totally unable to see, and now his hearing was going off kilter too - Sherlock sounded suddenly very far way, and John instinctively lurched forward, not wanting to be left alone…and his hand was surrounded gently by something warm and firm, and he glanced down to find Sherlock's pale, elegant fingers wrapped around his.

It was such a surprising, disconcerting image that John stared at it for a long time while the world whirled around him, perhaps for years, perhaps for seconds, he wasn't sure, but Sherlock was saying his name, and he raised his head wearily, feeling like he had been woken from a deep sleep (which Sherlock had admittedly done a few times now).

"What?" he grumbled.

Sherlock's grip on his hand was starting to feel painful now, which was weird because he didn't think it was possible to feel any _more _pain than this.

"Ambulance is coming," Sherlock was saying (_that's strange why do we need an ambulance?_ John wondered), "You need to stay with me."

I'm not about to start tap-dancing away any time soon, John thought, but he didn't say it because he had forgotten how his mouth worked. The world was dissolving, like sugar into tea, melting into pieces and…and…and…

Sherlock was blurring into strange, disorientated shapes now, made worse when he moved suddenly, dropping John's hand and placing his own hands either side of John's face instead, holding his head in an iron grip. "_John_," he was shouting. "John, stay _awake._"

John heard himself giggle, as if it was happening to someone else. "That's funny," he said cheerfully.

The blurred pieces of Sherlock's face rearranged themselves into a frown. "What is?" he demanded.

John's body was pulling him away into darkness; he had to battle to get the answers out, but he hadn't yet not answered Sherlock and a mere broken leg wasn't going to stop him now. The world could explode, and he'd still answer Sherlock.

"You," he said. "For once its _you _shouting at _me._"

Come, come into the darkness, said the pain.

"'S funny," John insisted, falling away.

The last thing he hard before the world shut off was Sherlock shouting his name, repeatedly and more and more frantically, and the distant tones of an approaching ambulance. And then…then there was nothing but darkness and whispers.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

His alarm was going off.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He really needed to turn it off and get ready for work.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Why was it so difficult to move?

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Hang on, that wasn't the sound of his alarm. His alarm was quicker than that. What was it then?

John opened his eyes and looked upwards.

An unfamiliar ceiling looked back.

"Uh?" he said, or tried to say, except that his vocal cords felt like they had merged together.

He tried looking down the bed instead, and was greeted with the sight of one of his legs hanging in a winch in front of him and wrapped in rather a lot of plaster.

The vague memory of an idiotic jump out of a very high window came back to haunt him.

"Oh," he said, or croaked. He glanced around himself - he was in a private room in Barts - John had been in the hospital enough to be able to tell it by the placement of the windows, for gods sake.

And he was _thirsty. _He looked around for a button to press and instead found a sleeping Sherlock Holmes lying in the most awkward position possible across one of the hospital chairs. _Across_, not in. His ridiculously long legs were dangling over one arm, his head was dropped back over the other (which was going to give him a serious crick the doctor in John informed him), he was bundled up in his great coat, his face was as white as snow apart from heavy bags under both eyes, and although one of his arms was slung over the back of the chair, the other was lying on the hospital bed, his fingertips a mere brush away from John's own.

Sherlock's ability to sleep anywhere had always amazed John (and admittedly made him a little envious). He had before found Sherlock asleep on the floor, on windowsills, even, on one memorable occasion, the staircase banister. He seemed quite comfortable in his chair, and he certainly looked like he needed his rest, so John was loathe to wake him. Instead, he moved his hand to the pad nearby and pressed a button.

Then he lay back and assessed his situation. He couldn't feel a thing, which probably meant he was drugged up to the eyeballs. He was hungry as well as thirsty, so even though it was light outside, he had probably been unconscious for more than one night. Overall, not too good but not too bad either.

The door opened and a petit, blonde nurse peeked in, and then smiled at the sight of his awake. John smiled back crookedly, then put a finger to his lips and gestured to the still deeply sleeping Sherlock; the last thing he wanted now was for him to wake.

The nurse gave him an understanding nod and tip-toed forward. "How are you feeling?" she whispered rather theatrically.

"Thirsty," John croaked, and she checked his details, then immediately filled him a glass from a jug on the table nearby. She checked his vitals while he drained it, then filled him another one and smiled. "Any pain?" John shook his head, downing the water. "We'll get a doctor in here in a moment," she said.

John handed her the empty glass, feeling better. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days," she answered, putting the glass back. She nodded over at the slumberous Sherlock. "He hasn't moved since then, you know."

John glanced over at Sherlock. "Really?" That was…odd.

The nurse nodded. "Although he's been driving all the doctors mad with his questions and observations - and, I don't know, is he _safe? _I thought I heard him yelling down his phone about murdering someone earlier!"

John swallowed a smile; he could imagine the scenes he had missed all too easily. Sherlock had probably quite enjoyed unravelling every doctor's innermost secrets to their colleagues and royally pissing them off. It was amazing they hadn't thrown him out yet.

"He's a detective," he informed the rather wide-eyed nurse. "He was probably helping the inspector."

"Oh no," said the nurse casually, checking his leg winch. "He was refusing to help."

John stared at her. "_Refusing?_"

"Oh yes, he said he was staying here," the nurse chatted blithely. "Doctor Tomas wasn't happy, he was hoping to get rid of him for good after the whole severed leg in the bed pan incident, but your friend was insistent."

"Sherlock refused a murder case for _me?_" It was typical of the man that it was this fact that flattered John the most. For Sherlock to pass up such an opportunity…He felt both bizarrely and deeply touched.

The nurse nodded, then checked her watch. "I'll get that doctor for you," she said, and left.

John looked back over at the motionless Sherlock. He remembered suddenly when he woke up in the hospital in Afghanistan after getting shot in the shoulder, when he awoken into a world of sand and screams and blood. He had woken up alone then, and that was because the rest of his troop were dead. He had hoped never to feel that lonely again.

He surveyed Sherlock for a while, then reached forward and very carefully entwined the tips of his fingers with Sherlock's.

He _would _never feel that lonely again.

He lay back and closed his eyes and smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** The 3 Stages of Friendship - Stage 3

**Author:** starjenni

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine!

**Warnings: **Swearing.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers: **The usual.

**Summary:** Stage 3 - Worry (or: in which John gets angry and talks are had.)

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_A/N: After having writer's block for days, it broke violently and now I'm posting the last part almost right after the second part! I hope you don't mind me multi-posting in a day, and thank you so much for all the lovely reviews I've been getting so far, I love you all!_

**3) Worry**

It has been 3 and a half hours exactly since Sherlock was taken prisoner by a gang of vengeful black-market organ traders, 2 hours 21 minutes since he managed to call John's mobile, 54 minutes since John and the police burst into the gang's warehouse, 53 minutes since Sherlock was threatened with one of the trader's guns, 52 and a half minutes since John shot the trader in the head, 45 minutes since Sherlock was taken to an ambulance, and now it has been 3 minutes since John has refrained in his shouting at him to pause for breath.

In a minute, Sherlock is sure he will turn blue.

"Do you even _realise_," John is saying for the umpteenth time, "How close you came to being killed, Sherlock? Or does it not even _compute_ anymore? Do you just do it so many times that you don't even register when someone points a gun at you? Or are you just blind as well as stupid?"

Sherlock gathers his orange shock blanket closer around him. He is thinking of collecting these, they're quite warm really, and he could swear he spends more time in one than out of one. It's raining but John apparently doesn't care, because he's marching up and down in front of Sherlock and his ambulance, bellowing his insults so loud that policemen walking past are giving him funny looks.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" John is roaring. "You can't even be bothered to tell anyone what your plans are, even if its bloody _obvious_ you were going to get kidnapped by those traders, but no, _no_ you couldn't take the time to tell me, or _anyone_, Sherlock, where you were going, because we're _far _too slow to waste time on. Well, you're not going to be so bloody clever when a bloody bullet shoots you through the bloody _head._"

Even accounting for him being in the military, that's a lot of swearing for John. Sherlock takes careful notes, and wonders if he should have Chinese or Thai tonight. Thai seems tempting -

"_Are you even listening to me?_" John screams.

"Nope," says Sherlock.

Apparently this is the wrong thing to say, because John freezes, and then goes red. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Look," he says, in what he hopes is a reasonable voice. "I don't know why you're shouting - "

"I'm not shouting!" shouts John.

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes again. "Fine, right, getting upset, whatever." He sighs. "I do this _all the time_, John, I'm not going to change just because you're angry about it, so you can save your breath." He glances up at John, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is still looking furious. "I don't even know why you're being like this, you _know_ I do this!"

John looks like he wants to hit him. "I was _worried _about you, you prat!"

"Oh." Sherlock sits back, wide-eyed. This hasn't even occurred to him.

Now John is the exasperated one. "_Yes,_ Sherlock." He sighs. Sherlock doesn't have a clue what to say to this, so he looks dumbly down at his feet.

After a pause, John shuffles over and sits next to him on the back of the ambulance.

"I mean, that's what friends do, they worry about each other," he says.

"_Friends?_" The word leaps out of Sherlock before he can stop it, and sounds more affronted than he means it to. He doesn't look at John, but he can feel him hesitate beside him.

"I mean…whatever," John says, obviously trying desperately to cover up. "I mean if you _wanted_ we could…or we could just…I don't know, be colleagues, I just thought. Anyway. Whatever. It's fine."

He coughs awkwardly and falls silent. Sherlock looks up from his concentrated study of his shoes, and looks at John, really looks at him. A small, shabbily dressed man, a normal man, normal features, normal _everything_. He's the sort of man who Sherlock wouldn't look at twice, he's the sort of man Sherlock should find _dull dull dull_…but he doesn't. Maybe it's the crease between his eyebrows, maybe it's the solid look in his eyes, even after such drama. Maybe it's because he is so obviously dependable, so obviously trustworthy, even if he trusts no one. Maybe it's all of these things. Maybe it's none of them.

"I've never had a friend before," Sherlock says numbly. He means it. He never has. No one near that close. The thought that maybe this man, sitting here, sharing his ambulance, is it, his first friend, maybe his _only_ friend _ever_…

His stomach clenches uncomfortably. He shouldn't have friends. Not him. He is too…and his job, what he does, it is all too…

_Dangerous._

But John isn't exactly a wilting flower. John is tough. And he is _here_ and he is _offering_, and somehow, although he should, Sherlock can't say no. It's a weakness he never realised he has until now, but he _needs_ a friend. He has spent too long alone. And John is perfect, no, John is more than perfect. John is…well, John. Somehow that fact is more than adequate.

"Do…do I have to do anything?" he asks. He has no idea how this _friend_ thing is meant to work. He can tell a man's history in his face, his career and relationships by the state of his hands, but he doesn't know anything about this.

John looks at him; their eyes meet, and suddenly John relaxes. "Try not to get yourself killed is usually a first," he says, and smiles crookedly. Sherlock smiles back, because they both know that that rule is straight out of the window. It has to be.

"Anything else?" he asks.

John half shrugs. "Just…be you, I suppose. And let me shout at you."

Sherlock sits back and pretends to be thinking. The rain continues to fall. Eventually he says, "I suppose I can deal with that."

John giggles his quick, addictive giggle, and Sherlock finds himself grinning too. For some reason, although he really hasn't realised anything mind-numbingly extraordinary, although they haven't fallen at each other's feet with declarations of love, his stomach is churning with warmth, and for a moment he feels that rare feeling of one who believes that all is right with the world.

He shoves his hands in his coat pocket and leans down slowly until the side of his forehead is touching the edge of John's shoulder. John is warm, and just as comfortable as he looks, and the singular peace that Sherlock is feeling triples in size, especially when John smiles and shifts a bit closer. The streets could be crawling with the most exciting and thrilling of crimes now, and he wouldn't care one bit, he definitely wouldn't move from this spot.

This is where he belongs.


End file.
